9S 3545 
.H528 

R6 

1905 

Copy ^ 



Robert Ellsworth, 
Failure. 



COPYRIGHT, J905, 

BY 

HERBERT BRIGKAM WHITE 
HARTFORD, CONNr 

the mavsidc Print. 



UBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 29 1905 

CopyrltfM Entry 
ASS a, XXc. No. 



ml 



* 



^^ Foreword : 

Should this little volume carry, 

To the serious give a thrill of pleasure, 

Or make the frivolous merr}', 

It will prove to all alike a treasure, 

And beside, the mind will measure. 



ROBERT ELLSWORTH, FAILURE. 



I mean to present to my fellow-mortals 
so much of the thought and history of 
Robert Ellsworth, as I have been able 
to glean from him, from his journals 
and manuscripts, which were be- 
queathed to me, and from his very few 
acquaintances. 

Always prone to the study of man- 
kind, I found in him an ideal subject, 
and knew the sensitive soul through its 
various intricacies, to the very depth 
of his artistic nature. 

Robert possessed a heart that always 
responded to the emotional. His mind 
was frequently so engrossed by a single 
thought that he was oblivious to all 
the world beside — space for the moment 
annihilated, his spirit roved in realms 
we wot not of. At such times could he 
be aroused, without waking, if I may 
be allowed the expression, he would 
speak fluently ; but the animation having 
subsided, if anyone looked at him or 
if he were forced to speak, his embar- 
assment was painfully apparent. 

He was conscious of this weakness, 
and it caused him much real suffering, 
that when brought in contact with his 



fellow men, he could acquit himself 
with so little honor. He increased 
this embarassment, no doubt, by al- 
ways thinking of himself as a failure, 
and men, influenced by reflected thought, 
it may be, generally spoke of him as a 
most complete one. 

He believed, erroneously perhaps, 
(being of a visionary turn of mind), 
that, as a failure, he was born over a 
century ago, when one of his great- 
grand-sires, son of the Lord Mayor of 
London-town, ruined both his health 
and his fortune by ill-directed efforts 
to regain the vigor wasted during his 
youth by excessive indulgence in the 
luxuries incident to his time and age. 

Compelled to submit to the humili- 
ation of comparative poverty, chagrin, 
preying on a nervous system, already 
weakened, gradually undermined his 
strength until he became almost to- 
tally incapacitated — and lo, generations 
later, a youth in a New England town, 
thousands of miles from the old English 
home of his illustrious ancestor, the Lord 
Mayor, and his frivolous son, inherits the 
strength of the one, and the weakness 
of the other. 

As a consequence, the strong mind 
dominated the weak, responsive, emo- 



tional nature — and in the stillness of the 
night, alone,in his chamber, his soul was 
uplifted by beautiful thoughts, which 
his untutored mind could never put 
into words. Pictures, resplendent with 
color and graceful forms, flashed in 
quick succession across his mental 
vision; but always if he essayed to ex- 
ecute them, the canvas reflected only 
failure, and always failure, until at last, 
in anguish, he conceived an idea that 
tortured and yet comforted him. 

With his colors he carefully printed 
and illumined the word "Failure," and 
fastened it to his mirror; and each day 
as he arose, he carefully scanned his 
features, trying vainly to decide that 
his failures were not apparent in his 
countenance. His nature, however, was 
formed in such a mould, it was impos- 
sible for him to off-cast the illusion 
that his acquaintances, nay, all the 
world, could clearly read "Failure" 
written there. The air, the hills, the 
trees, the placid bosom of the stream, 
the innocent eyes of the flocks and herds, 
the eyes of his fellows, and above all 
his own mind echoed or reflected the 
thought. 

He was still further grieved by the 
unhappy termination of the visions 



attending the worship of what was to 
him, the fairest girl in all the world, as 
he saw her reflected in that enchanted 
mirror, his mind. 

Always quivering with emotion, in 
the grasp of abject Misery, or enthralled 
with Delight on her highest pinnacle, 
he knew no middle course. His emo- 
tions endowed the girl of his heart with 
all that was beautiful, exalted her far 
above all other women; and there he 
worshiped humbly at her feet, until at 
last, his goddess, tiring of his adulation, 
or perchance through coquetry, (which 
he, always serious, failed to understand), 
dismissed him; and in the depth of the 
despondency into which he was plunged, 
his misery buried him in a grave of 
utter hopelessness: and from that time 
on to the end, the very fibres of his 
being were laid bare for the harsh 
fingers of an unfeeling world to play 
upon, as the wind upon the harp; and 
many a m.an, his inferior in everything 
save only assurance, so manipulated 
the strings, that poor Robert, intel- 
lectually strong, and conscious he was 
being duped, gradually responded to 
their touch almost to the extent of his 
little fortune; and when his little patri- 
mony was nearly exhausted, he quietly 



removed his lodgings to a less fashion- 
able and more obscure quarter of 
the town, and there lived in seclusion 
on the very slender means remaining 
to him. 

Never robust, and more unhappy 
now than ever before, disheartened, 
grieving by the tomb of his shattered 
ideals, brooding over many failures, 
living almost entirely within himself 
and within his chamber, in the world 
but not of it, his health failed rapidly. 

It was at about this time, I think, 
that the pride of his strong and 
successful forbears smouldering low 
within his breast, almost extinguished 
but not quite, so exaggerated both the 
importance and the extent of his deteri- 
oration, that wholly abashed and sub- 
dued, hiding from the world, he engen- 
dered a longing to sleep unheeded; — 
his failures, with himself, the supreme 
failure of all, to lie, together with their 
memory, in one unmarked, forgotten 
grave. 

So much I know, that at the last he 
expressed such a desire. 

One September evening near the 
close of his life, I called upon him, just 
at dusk. The sunset had been a par- 
ticularly glorious one, and the after- 



glow was still beautifully apparent 
from his chamber window. He was 
visibly affected when I entered and 
asked nervously for a pad and pencil, 
being too weak to secure them for 
himself. 

As he wrote, his dark hair shading a 
brow high and smooth, and porten- 
tiously pale, deep-set eyes, soft, but 
glowing with the fires of artistic passion 
long suppressed, cheeks flushed with 
the hectic pink incident to the disease 
from which he suffered, now increased 
by the excitement of the moment, he 
presented a picture as of one inspired. 
Not without some hesitation, he com- 
posed several lines, and then welcomed 
me with a smile, too much overcome 
by weakness and emotion for words. 

I never saw him again in life, but 
often did I tramp out to the old cem- 
etery to visit his grave, not only be- 
cause I had been much attached to him 
during his life, but partly to ascertain 
if his resting place were to remain 
unmarked. 

About a year after his demise, I 
received a packet from his mother 
addressed to me in his own handwriting, 
which contained what I believe to be 
the verses he wrote on the evening 



that proved to be his last on earth; 
and could he have endowed the un- 
finished lines with all the beauty he 
saw, and felt, and tried to describe, 
his name, I think, would have needed 
no other memorial to have been remem- 
bered long after all his failures had been 
forgotten. Just as he wrote them, on 
that last evening of his life, I present 
them here, crude and unfinished, but 
typical of him, bravely struggling to 
express in his simple way, the visions 
he saw from the portals of eternity. 



iroie 



Sunset's glow, God's broad pathway 
home, alight; 
Evening bells, the Soul's sweet curfew 
tolled for me, 
Softly calling through the misty night, 
Calling Home, gently sets my spirit 
free. 

Earth's abode I leave for Thee, only 
Thee, 
Thy kindly eyes beckon me, far to 
roam, 
Their rays shine far across an azure 
sea. 
And weave a shining path, to light 
me Home. 



In addition to these lines 1 append 
a number of verses selected from the 
manuscript and journals which he left at 
my disposal, all embraced in the little 
packet I received from the hands of his 
mother. 



RESURRECTION, 



ROBERT ELLSWORTH, 



Nature weeps by thy funereal bier; 
The nodding grass is bathed in dewy 

tears ; 
The sighing zephyr pauses on its 

restless way, 
Softly, Even' enfolds the dying day. 

In bright array the starry tapers burn; 
From yonder pine, just at the torrent's 

turn, 
The moping owl chants a funeral dirge, 
And with muffled notes drowsy mourners 

urge. 

x\ll Nature's dressed in somber hues 

and cold, 
Save where the western sky in flaming 

gold. 
Gleams through the forests on yon 

mountain's crest, 
And gilds the eagle circling o'er its 

nest. 

Mingled with voices of the savage wild, 
Throbs the tuneful notes of the dove so 

mild; 
And over all the cataract presides, 
Swelling the pealing anthem to the skies. 



In whispers, the tongues of the forest 
speak ; 

From out the west o'erpowering dark- 
ness creeps, 

The bright tapers shrouding, in mourn- 
ing deep: — 

Hushed are the voices in the jungle's 
keep. 

Portentious calm foretells the tempest's 

reign ; 
Flaming tongues rend the nocturnal 

pall in twain; 
And awed by reverberant Nature's 

grief, _ 
The mountains tremble as the aspen's 

leaf. 

Before the Eastern Star, Herald of 
dawn, 

The storm on the black wings of night 
is borne; 

Then,— embowered in the meadow's 
fragrant hay, 

The sweet-toned lark proclaims a new- 
born day. 

Joy is caroled from every flowering 

spray, 
The world, rejoicing, swells the melody; 
The day has perished, and again is born, 
With thee, O Nature, death is but the 

dawn. 



THE RECLUSE, 



A foreigner in my own, my native land; 
Of the human family, without a fellow 

man; 
In the midst of friends, unfriended and 

alone, 
A stranger, beside my own, my own 

hearthstone. 



To thee I turn, O Nature, and e'er at 

Even' I find, 
A hearth, aglow, along thy West's 

horizon line ; 
Where all are welcome, and none are 

e'er constrained. 
For all mankind thy flaming hearth's 

maintained. 



And so, with thee I dwell upon thy 

mountain's side. 
My swelling heart responds to every 

throb of thine ; 
I rejoice with thee, O Nature, and oft 

with thee repine. 
And in thee, a refuge from every woe, 

I find. 



FAITH 



Mow beautiful art thou, elusive Star, 

Thy radiance, as incense of the East, 
Delights, o'erpowers me, wafts my spirit 
far 
Beyond my ken, my beating heart 
has ceased. 



For me, the azure robe is drawn aside; 
Beyond, — O hark, — my thrilling 
senses reel; 
Sustained by notes deep as the booming 
tide. 
The voices of a host of angels peal. 

The Anthem rings with mingled melody ; 

The ether, crystalized to vibrant song, 
Palpitates with the grand old rhapsody. 

Quivering, reflects the glorious throng. 

The spread of wings, — then only 
throbbing space, 
Throbbing, as when the toll of bells 
ceaseth ; 
My soul o'erwrought, seeks thy radiant 
face, 
My guiding Star, — fainting, weakness 
freeth. 



ttow beautiful Thou art, thy rays serene, 

So calm, renew my strength from 

far, — 

Illumine space for the impending scene, 

The soul's requital at God's judgment 

bar. 

Oh source of strength, sustain me now^ 
mine own; 
With thy radiance dealing death to 
night. 
Through space, from heaven to earth, 
not once alone. 
But thrice, uplift me with thy constant 
light. 

A note mingling the harmonies of all, 
Sends echoes rocking through the 
universe ; 
A throng that fills heaven's judgment 
hall 
With song, intones a ringing herald's 
verse. 

Time, ages pause, — all creation riven, 
rocks ; 
The splendor, but now a shining 

Outshone, sinks paling into dimming 
spots ; 
All former glories are as darkest 
night ; — 



Peace, — -the voices of hosts of angels 
speak: 
As, — the sighing of murmuring wind, 
And whispering leaves when forests 
weep, 
Defenseless in the shadow of His 
wing. 



r|» 



THE PASSING OF THE SEASONS, 

Being a little Conceit, 

by an Idler, namely, 
ROBERT ELL3WORTH, 



Youth, — the spring-time of life; 

The most precious, and perhaps the 
least appreciated 

Of all the gifts bountiful nature vouch- 
safes. 

We dwell above the clouds, 

In a world of delightful enchantment, 
Seemingly as real, — as enduring, 

As the crags of the mountain. 

Far above the sordid reality of life we 

are borne. 
The cares and perplexities of later 

life, 
Mere fables, myths, unworthy serious 

thought : 

But alas, — almost without warning. 
As a candle flame iii a draught, our 
illusions vanish: — 
And Youth is forever lost in the impen- 
etrable past, 
With its lights and shadows:— 
Its remembered pleasures, its half- 

forgotten sorrows. 
Reluctantly, — with slowly unclasping 
hands. 
The springtime of life is relinquished. 
Launched on the boundless sea of time, 
Never to cease its drift, deeper and 
deeper into antiquity. 



The summer rapidly dissipates the 
mists of youth, 
And we live largely for the acquisition 
of material things : 
Gold, the key that unlocks all doors; 
Position, social standing, — ^the respect 
of the community. 

At times, however, we escape from the 

grasp of ambition 
And fondly live over in imagination, 
The little tragedies and comedies of our 

earlier existence. 

The hobgoblins always waiting for us 
at bedtime. 
In the shadows of the stairway, just 
around the turn. 

The mild old gentleman with the snowy 
beard. 
Whom we always venerated as Santa 
Claus, 
And to whom, though we often longed to, 
We never ventured speak. 

The little girl in the pinafore, 

For whom we turned innumerable 
somersaults, 

All in vain, until one memorable morning 
We walked the old school fence, 



And never felt the tumbles, 

Until mother with her needle mended 
the many rents. 

And thus, in the midst of the fierce 
struggles 
On Ambition's battle field. 
We find opportunities occasionally. 

To renew our youth in reveries ; 
But Father Time is never slothful, is 
ever on the march, 
And not without misgiving, 
We feel the chill approach of melancholy 
autumn, — 
Dread winter's gorgeous Herald. 

A portion of our aspirations having been 
realized, 
We are now disappointed, perchance, 
To find the joy resulting from our 
successes. 
Something less than we anticipated. 

Our infirmities keep pace with our 
increasing 3^ears, 
And the rapidly progressing world. 
Has now no place for us in its activities. 

However, as we sit by the fire of a 
winter's afternoon. 
We are not altogether lonely. 



The greatest minds the nations have 
produced, 
Though they lived in ages past and 
spake in unfamiliar tongues, 
Are vouchsafed us as companions. 

Our failing eyes may be brightened, 
Our old hearts warmed, 

By the beauteous words of Masters, 
Long since passed away. 

And so, in the waning light. 

We read, — and doze, — and doze, — 
and read, in turn, 
The comforting fire radiating its cheerful 
light and warmth about us, 
And dozing, perchance, some day, 
With peace in our hearts, and good- will 
toward men, 
Our life may go out, as the fire smould- 
ering low upon the hearth. 
And when God wills it so, it is our hope 
and prayer, 
We may be ushered into a life of 
eternal spring; 
And who could wish for an existence 
more blessed, more beautiful, 
Than a continuity of the illusions of 
youth, realized. 



KNOWLEDGE 



I'hy light, — as gleams the luminous Star, 
Shining clear and bright through 
encircling gloom, 
Tints beauty with new lustre from 
afar, — 
Thy kindly shadows the uncouth 
entomb. 



THE PRIMITIVE, 



Shaggy mountain's beetling brow, hoary 

head, 

Shading the placid bosom of the lake, 

Where the Indian finds his daily bread, 

The supple spear, his harrow, plow 

and rake. 

The lake, his field and storehouse, none 
disturb ; 
The horizon's ring bounds his cragged 
farm ; 
The finny fish, the deer, his flock and 
herd, 
The Seasons' frown or smile, can ne'er 
alarm. 

The starry canopy above, his roof, 
The waving grass his coverlet and 
crest. 
His bed grown soft b}^ long accustomed 
use. 
He lays him down in luxury to rest. 

Would that I were that simple, happy 
child, 

That I might lay me down in peace to 
sleep, 
Midst mountains' crags and torrents 
wild, 
In sweet repose, at rugged Nature's 
feet. 



OEC 29 i90d 



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